Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/165

Book 12. His white main'd Steeds, that bow'd beneath the Yoke, He chear'd to Courage, with a gentle Stroke; Then urg'd his fiery Chariot on the Foe; And rising shook his Lance; in act to throw, But first he cry'd, O Youth, be proud to bear Thy Death, ennobled by Pelides' Spear. The Lance pursu'd the Voice without delay, Nor did the whizzing Weapon miss the way; But pierc'd his Cuirass, with such Fury sent, And sign'd his Bosom with a Purple Dint. At this the Seed of Neptune; Goddess-born, For Ornament, not Use, these Arms are worn; This Helm, and heavy Buckler, I can spare; As only Decorations of the War: So Mars is arm'd for Glory, not for Need. 'Tis somewhat more from Neptune to proceed, Than from a Daughter of the Sea to spring: Thy Sire is Mortal; mine is Ocean's King. Secure of Death, I shou'd contemn thy Dart, Tho' naked, and impassible depart: He said, and threw: The trembling Weapon pass'd Through nine Bull-hides, each under other plac'd, On his broad Shield; and stuck within the last. Achilles wrench'd it out; and sent again The hostile Gift: The hostile Gift was vain. He try'd a third, a tough well-chosen Spear; Th' inviolable Body stood sincere, Though Cygnus then did no Defence provide, But scornful offer'd his unshielded Side. Not otherwise th' impatient Hero far'd, Than as a Bull incompass'd with a Guard, Amid the Circus roars, provok'd from far By sight of Scarlet, and a sanguine War: They quit their Ground, his bended Horns elude; In vain pursuing, and in vain pursu'd. Before